


all the blood that i will bleed

by lefteyeastrology



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Abusive Myra Kaspbrak, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Coming Out, Divorce, Eddie Kaspbrak is Bad at Feelings, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Gore, Miscommunication, Multi, Parent Eddie Kaspbrak, Protective Losers Club (IT), Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, The Losers Club Are Good Friends (IT), The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), mild teen rebellion courtesy of eddie's 15 y/o son, richie tozier's comeback tour goes EXCEEDINGLY well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lefteyeastrology/pseuds/lefteyeastrology
Summary: "And oh God, the kids!" Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself. "What the fuck am I supposed to tell the kids, man?!"Richie's face goes about three shades paler, his eyes very large and very blue behind his glasses. "I'm gonna need you to back up a bit, Eds. What kids?"In which Eddie Kaspbrak gets divorced, comes out, introduces his two kids to the friends he forgot, and falls in love again. Not necessarily in that order.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak - Relationship, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie Kaspbrak dies and reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've often wondered how the movie would've gone differently if at least one of the losers had a kid. i can see myra "trapping" eddie with a baby, and i wanted to examine how the events in derry would effect eddie and richie's relationship with eddie's kids

Eddie Kaspbrak is dying.  


They say your entire life flashes before your eyes when you die. Eddie had never particularly believed that was true. Yet here he is, reliving the births of his children once more-arguing with Myra about EJ’s name (“I know it was your father’s name, baby, but Francis is just so _ugly_. Edward’s a regal name- you should be happy to pass it onto your son.”) and ultimately relenting when she began to sob about how horrendous her pregnancy had been, how painful labor was. Caitlin, coming too small and too early, kept in a glass case with a tube in her nose. He relives fretting over her and getting into a fight with a nurse at the pediatrician’s who held her the way you would a clipboard. Somehow, even though he is literally dying, he manages to get pissed about it all over again. Who the fuck carries a three-month-old like that?

He relives his children’s childhoods and his marriage, screaming matches with Myra that ended with her sobbing and him apologizing and not knowing why, seeing how miserable Caitlin looks, realizing her inhaler is filled with water (just like his was, it was a _gazebo_ , it was _bullshit_ ) and how EJ had to sneak around to see his friends and finally being _done_. Myra pleading and manipulating and accusing him of running out on her when Mike called, getting the kids to call him and beg him to come back right away, but he couldn’t just yet because it had all hit him like a freight truck. That that empty sort of familiarity when EJ would quietly ask him if he could drive him to one of the houses of the friends Myra hates for no reason is because he used to have to lie to his own mother, tip-toe around her to go to Mike’s farm or Ben’s apartment or their collective clubhouse. Because the minute he got that call all the childhood and adolescent memories that are playing in front of him now seeped back into his head.

Meeting Bill in the first grade, Bill who couldn’t even get through a sentence but was somehow the smartest, bravest person he knew, Bill with his Spiderman comics. Stan and Richie after that, a study in contrasts-Stan neat and clean, the only friend Mommy ever liked, and even then, she couldn’t resist a subtle dig, a frown when she remembered his yarmulke. Richie, messy and too loud and unable to shut up even at eight, but possessing every single X-Men comic and that being enough, even if his muddy fingerprints got on the thin pages. Sleepovers in Bill’s basement, Georgie shadowing them, only three or four and eager to play with the big boys. God, _Georgie_ , so small with a gap in his teeth and a high soft voice and all left of him being a torn, bloody raincoat.

Richie falling off the swing-set on purpose, cutting up his hands and knees and smiling as he calls Eddie stupid, infuriating nicknames as he cleans him up. Hiding from the Bowers Gang, feeling like his lungs were going to cave in. The first time his stomach jumped when Bill touched him and how he’d cried into his pillow that night because Mommy had told him all about the sicknesses that came with being unclean. Ten years old and already hiding, already hating himself.

Richie’s smiles and voices and jokes going from simply infuriating to something else, tugging on Eddie’s cheek and calling him “cute cute cute” and promptly claiming he’s slept with his mother. Eddie wanting to hate him but never quite being able to.

Ben, covered in blood and running from Bowers and Eddie cleaning him and being terrified of getting sick even though Ben was the one who was hurt. Beverly in her underwear by the quarry, new and different but not as drawing, not as beautiful as any of the boys. Mike, too solemn and adult for a boy his age, pinned by racist assholes on the other side of a river. Building the clubhouse. Richie scoffing at the shower caps Stan brought to protect their hair from spiders, and Eddie’s hands ripping his off his head before he can even really think about it and stamping down any questions as to why. Breaking his arm in Neibolt house, the clown’s fucking face too close to his own, red and white and smiling with too big teeth.

Richie’s hands around his face, blue eyes magnified behind coke bottle glasses. “Look at me, Eddie, look at me.”

Mommy’s rage. Finding out he was lied to for his entire childhood. For once sticking up for himself. Getting rid of the clown for the first time and hoping it would be the last. Glass slicing his palm and for once, he wasn’t worried about blood-borne diseases. Beverly saying she’d call and write and never doing either. Bill leaving soon after, more of the same, their numbers dwindling until it was just him, Richie, and Mike in the clubhouse. Mike figuring out that Derry, that the clown had made their friends forget them. Richie snarkily calling him ‘Mulder’, but still hugging them both so tight as he leaves the clubhouse because deep down they know Mike is right.

Crying against Richie’s thrift store leather jacket in the weeks before graduation because he doesn’t want to forget, not his friends, not now, not ever.  
Mommy dying his first semester at the University of Maine and something telling him to transfer, to escape this sinking ship while he still can because he can’t even remember his hometown’s name, let alone anyone who was there. Those first lonely months at NYU. Meeting Myra and latching onto her, because her embrace is familiar for all that it is suffocating.

Then the phone call. Hearing Mike’s voice and immediately knowing who he was, how to get back to Derry. Sitting at the Chinese restaurant, looking at photos of Stan’s children, wanting to show off his own but somehow fearing the clown would come and get them if he took out his phone and wondering why the hell Stan, Stan who has always been so cautious, isn’t doing the same. Fortune cookies turning into eyes and bugs and Ben’s comforting arm, Richie calling for him across the room. Nights at the hotel, Beverly winking at him conspiratorially, and Richie badgering Stan, who dryly talks back as he sips his tea, Mike filling them in on his research, the rest of them filling each other in on the gaps of what should have been a shared history. Ben making them popcorn, Bill blushing as they watch one of the films based of his books and bashfully admitting yeah, he did rush the ending.

Sitting with Richie alone, outside their hotel room on the ledge, and just talking. Richie about how much he hates his ghostwriters, how much he misses the days when he was young and could tell his own jokes.  
“So just do that again, dipshit,” Eddie had scoffed. He expected Richie to challenge him on it.  
He didn’t. He smiled slowly at Eddie and ruffled his hair. “You got a point, Spaghetti Man. You got a point.”

Eddie flipped him off. They were quiet, and Eddie almost showed him pictures of his kids, almost told him that the reason he was getting divorced was because of more than Myra reminding him of his mother and how he’d finally figured out why he felt so empty.  
But he didn’t. So they sat there.

Fighting the leper in the pharmacy. Bowers stabbing him in the face. Richie looking so goddamn proud when he tells him, eyes all lit up behind his glasses. Neibolt and almost letting Richie down and Bill getting mad at him, his face red and angry as Stan snaps at him to calm down. And all he wants is for Bill not to be mad and the anger melts into something sad and soft eventually, but Bill was right, he almost let Richie die, Richie who was always the one who looked out for him, Richie who carried an extra inhaler their entire childhoods even after Eddie found out he didn’t need it anymore, Richie who he loved and who was so good and forgiving.

"You're braver than you think." Richie's hand clasping his shoulder and lingering for just a little too long. 

“This kills monsters if you believe it does.” Beverly’s eyes, still so brave and so green, the big sister he’d never had. And him believing his weapon would kill monsters the most when he saw Richie in the air, eyes blank and mouth ajar, him wanting to hurt Pennywise more than he ever had.  
Mike’s eyes wide and warning, as though the Turtle had told him something but Eddie not caring to know what.  
Richie blinking back to life, eyes back to that blue Eddie first realized he loved at sixteen. “Richie, man, I think I got him,” the triumphant feeling. “I think I killed it for real this time.”

And then the sharp pain. Seeing his own blood on Richie’s eyeglasses as his face falls into a scream.  
Richie’s hands on his own, Stan and Bill both ripping off their shirts to press to his middle, Ben cradling his head, Bev sobbing at his side. Mike standing over them, protecting, shaking. As though he’s waiting.  
“Richie, I….”

_I love you, I love all of you, but with you it’s different._

“I fucked your mom.”  
Richie’s wrong. He isn’t braver than he thinks. He’s more cowardly.

Eddie feels empty and aching, and he can’t tell if it’s because he can somehow still feel the wound in his abdomen or because he’s dying and he didn’t get to tell his children, his friends, Richie, how much he loves them.  


"No, no, no,” the Voice says. He’d heard it before, when they did the ritual with Mike. It is old and raspy and vaguely androgynous, a benevolent metaphysical grandparent. “Now isn’t your time, Eddie Kaspbrak. Now isn’t your time.”

“How the fuck can it not be my time? I’m dead.”

The fucking Turtle has the nerve to laugh at him. “That’s what you think.”

And then Eddie is shunted back into his body, EMTs around him and people’s hands on him and someone’s hand crushing his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Richie reflects, and Eddie wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's divided between richie and eddie's points of view. i think i'm going to try to do that for the next few chapters too. mild tw for gore, mostly in flashback.

Richie really fucking hates hospitals.

The food is shit, for one. When he was a kid he got his appendix removed, and after he’d been presented with creamed spinach that smelled like the decrepit, depressing nursing home his Nana lived in he’d gone on a hunger strike. Mom hadn’t been pleased with him. She was even less pleased with Dad, because good ol’ Went found eight-year-old Richie’s resolve hysterical.

He remembers, vaguely, Bill and Stan coming to visit him, but not Eddie. Eight-year-old Richie had been deeply offended by this, because Sonia brought Eddie to the hospital for a freaking cough, but now that Richie had actual surgery hospitals were too dirty?!

(Even at eight, Richie knew it wasn’t the hospital being clean she was worried about)

At forty, he still hates hospitals, still fucking hates the chipping blue paint on the waiting room walls, still hates the lukewarm coffee Mike handed him moments ago.

The ambulance ride is a blur- Eddie’s hand, at first lip and cold in his own gradually warming up and squeezing back ever so slightly and Richie clutching it for dear life, because he remembers seeing Eddie’s limp corpse in the Deadlights, the fucking clown pulling its claw and sending viscera and blood and intestine splattering everywhere, cleaving him clear in half in other visions, dragging up and ripping through sternum and breastplate.

“Richie, I think I got it! I think I killed it for real this time!”

Eddie’s stretcher being wheeled down the hallway, those stupid fucking paramedics pushing Richie back. “He’s going into surgery, sir. I suggest you wait in the waiting room.”

“Well, what else would I fucking do in a waiting room? Headstands?”

“Rich.” Stan’s hand was as vaguely stern and reprimanding as his tone as he steered Richie back into the waiting room. That was at least two hours ago.

So here he was, sandwiched between Beverly and Stan. The waiting room is blurry. Somebody—maybe Ben, maybe one of the EMTs—took his glasses to clean the blood off them. Richie really doesn’t care who took them. He doesn’t care about much of anything right now.

Bill and Mike whisper amongst each other, Bill’s shoulder pressing into what is either a vending machine or a medieval torture device. Their faces are mere blurry blobs, but Richie can tell that they’re staring at him.

Beverly’s hand rests on his wrist, her thin fingers forming small circles against his skin. Beside him, Stan checks his phone periodically, eventually standing and moving out through the door with it against his ear.

The muscular beige and brown blob turns into Ben as it gets closer. He hands Richie his glasses.

“Thanks, Haystack.”

Ben gives him one of those soft, if-you-need-anything-I’m-here smiles. Good ol’ Haystack. Quiet and gentle. “Welcome, Rich.” He glances between him and Beverly, as Mike and Bill maneuver away from the vending machine. “You guys hungry? I was thinking of running out to grab a pizza.”

“Mmmm. Maine pizza. What a delicacy.” Richie shakes his head. Beverly agrees, her nose crinkling slightly.

“I could get Chinese instead,” Ben offers. Behind him, Mike turns a tad gray and Bill’s nose scrunches up. Even Ben seems to regret the offer once it leaves his mouth.

“Dude, I don’t think any of us are going to be eating Chinese for a while,” Richie points out. “Flying eyeball fortune cookies tend to kill an appetite.”

“There’s a McDonalds’ not too far from here,” Mike points out. “Want me to swing by the drive-thru with you?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mike.”

Bill nudges his shoulder against Richie’s. He looks tired and old. “You doing okay, Trashmouth?”

 _Well, the love of my life-who I just remembered, by the way-got impaled by a fucking space clown and we don_ _’_ _t know if he_ _’_ _s gonna walk again. Oh, and I_ _’_ _m still closeted, and my career is probably over and even if it_ _’_ _s not, I_ _’_ _m fucking sick of it anyway. But I_ _’_ _m really fucking great, Bill, thanks for asking._

“Could be better. Could be inside your mom.”

Bill rolls his eyes fondly. “I thought you only slept with Eddie’s mom.”

And God, even hearing his name is enough for Richie’s stomach to curl and stab in pain. Beverly’s eyes hover on the side of his face.

So he schools his mask back into place. “My dear Sonia is no longer with us, unfortunately,” Richie reminds. His mouth feels very dry.

Beverly is still looking at him. He refuses to look back at her. Bill moves his hand to squeeze Richie’s shoulder in a vaguely apologetic way.

“He’s gonna be okay Rich,” Mike speaks softly and paternally. Richie is reminded of the way Wentworth would tell him that the monsters under his bed weren’t real. A gentle reassurance.

Fuck being reassured. Richie doesn’t need it. What he does need is nicotine.

“Yeah.” He shrugs Bill’s hand off, deliberately avoiding his gaze. “I’m gonna go have a smoke. Get me a Big Mac, kay Ben?”

“Alright, Rich.” Ben looks warily concerned. Richie pointedly ignores that and moves out the doors.

He doesn’t like the way Newports taste, but hey. Menthols are better than nothing.

Stan’s down the block, a curly-headed blur wrapped in a cardigan. He’s still on the phone. Richie raises a hand to him by way of greeting, earning a nod in response.

Beverly’s heels click against the pavement, her arm bumping against his. She pulls a pack of Marlboros out and lights one.

“Oh shit, can I grub one of those?” Richie lets his Newport fall to the sidewalk. Beverly smiles tolerantly and hands him a cigarette. The twist of her rosy lips is catlike.

“Do you remember the first time you smoked one of these? We were on the fire escape by my apartment. You couldn’t stop coughing.”

Richie does remember now, remembers Bev’s fist thumping against his back and how the water glass she gave him was chipped. He thinks he’d been a little bit in love with Beverly then—never how he was with Eddie, but enough to give him some false semblance of hope and to make him confused.

“I was thirteen, Beverly. Not all of us can have become nicotine addicts at nine.”

Beverly flips him off, but she’s smiling.

It’s nice, standing with her under the purpling sky, watching the plumes of grey-white smoke reach up for the street lamps. Beverly says nothing, her face illuminated by her lighter when she brings it to the tip of her second cigarette. She doesn’t say anything and neither does he.

Richie has the uncanny feeling she knows everything, even if they aren’t saying anything. He flicks the still burning butt onto the pavement and squashes it beneath the toe of his shoe.

“Want another?” Bev asks. Richie shakes his head.

Beverly cocks her head. Her eyes see too much. “Richie—“

“I’m fine, Bev.” It comes out short and angry. Beverly doesn’t look hurt though. Just understanding, and maybe a bit sad. Richie rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Sorry.”

Beverly rubs circles on his back. “It’s okay, Richie.”

Stan walks towards them, slipping his phone into his cable-knit pocket. He frowns at Richie, the crease in his brow concerned. But he doesn’t ask if he’s alright. In a lot of ways, Stan knows him best‑he knows not to ask.

“How’s the wife, Stan?”

The smile that lights up his face is unmistakable. Stan never smiled much, even as a child, and the rare occasions that he did were sights to behold. Richie can’t help but be a little jealous. “She’s well.”

“And Bob, Turkey, and Pigeon?”

Stan’s smile falls into his more-familiar frown. Bev chortles. “Richard, my children’s names are Andrew, Robin, and Lark.”

“Same difference.”

Stan’s glaring at him so intensely that if Richie hadn’t known him for so long, he’d be a little afraid. But he’s known Stanley Uris since the tender age of six, so he has absolutely no fear.

“How come only one of your kids has a human name? Are the other two actually birds?”

“I’m ignoring you now, Richie,” Stan informs him, completely turning his body away from Richie’s to talk to Bev.

Their chatter turns into background noise, only vaguely filling the hole left by the absence of Eddie’s voice. He watches the smoke of his cigarette turn from pale blue to grey-white.

-

There is a hand, warm and calloused, fingers laced in Eddie’s own. It is the tether holding him to the Turtle’s words that is not his time.

The voices come after, familiar warmth spilling through the blackness.

“Richie, it’s been three days. You need to go back to the hotel and shower.” Stan, tired and affecting the tone of someone staging an intervention. 

“Nope. Not moving.” Richie’s voice sounds by his right ear. The hand is his. Eddie pretends that that doesn’t make his stomach twitch in his abdomen.

“Richie, you’re starting to smell.”

“I always smell, Staniel,” Richie retorts. “I’m a fucking comedian. We’re gross and unhygienic by nature.” Considering that he’s currently holding Eddie’s hand, that better be a fucking joke.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Richie.” Ben this time, closer to his head than Stan is. “Eddie would want you to change.”

And yeah, Eddie kind of does want him to change, but he also kind of doesn’t, because Richie leaving to go change means Richie letting go of his hand. And stupidly, Eddie doesn’t want that.

“When have I ever actually done what Eddie wants?”

Eddie can barely suppress an amused snort. He hears Bill let out a choked chuckle. Stan sighs deeply through his nose. If an eye roll were a sound, that’s what it would sound like.

“We’re not going to be able to get you to leave, are we?” Stan sighs.

“Nope.” Eddie feels Richie’s fingers tighten around his own.

“At least one of us should stay, anyway. In case he wakes up,” Mike chimes in.

“I don’t mind staying,” Bill says. He sounds tired and worn.

“And I’m still not moving,” Richie announces.

“I can grab some clothes for the two of you,” Beverly offers.

“Why do I feel like this is an excuse for you to judge my lack of style?” Richie sounds dubious.

“Considering you probably only brought Hawaiian shirts…”

“Can it, Ringwald.” Bev laughs. It sounds further away. On Eddie’s other side, Ben is standing. The door to his room swings shut.

Bill awkwardly clears his throat. “Want me to g-grab you something from the vending machine?”

“Sure.” Eddie opens his eye a crack to see Bill’s retreating back.

Beside him, Richie sighs, tightening his grip on his hand. Eddie turns to face him. His jaw is covered in five o’clock shadow, his dark hair vaguely greasy. His glasses are pushed up to his forehead as he rubs at his eyes.

“Hi, Rich.”

Richie practically falls out of his seat. He lets go of Eddie’s hand too, the fucker. “Holy shit, Eds!”

He looks like he’s about to call the rest of them back. Eddie stops him. “I’m still pretty tired, Rich.”

“Okay. Okay.” Richie awkwardly smooths his hair over. “Um, how are you feeling?”

Eddie raises a brow at him. “I just had major surgery because I was stabbed by a clown talon.”

“No need to be so snippy about it, Eds.”

Eddie forces himself to scowl at him. It makes the cut Bowers left on his face sting a bit. “Don’t call me that, asshole.”

Richie raises his hands in mock surrender. The smile on his face is wide and sunlight yellow. Eddie forces himself away from the rays, looking towards the TV.

“Ben’s been trying to get in touch with your wife, by the way.” The world drastically narrows once those words leave his mouth.

“What?!”

“Yeah,” Richie scratches at the back of his neck. “I told him you’re planning on leaving her, but—“

“What the fuck, dude?! What did he even say to her?!”

“Nothing yet, considering the fact your phone has a passcode. And you know how Haystack is, he’s too much of a good boy to try to unlock it. Despite the fact it is so obviously your birthday.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I gonna tell her?”

“That you got stabbed by a clown talon in Maine and you’re leaving her?”

Eddie scowls at him, because really? REALLY? “Oh yeah, sure, I’m going to tell my insanely protective wife that I fucked off to Maine for two days—“

“More like five, now,” Richie smiles apologetically. “You’ve been out for three days, dude.”

“Five? FIVE?! Even fucking better! God, what is she gonna say?”

Richie crinkles his brow. “Does she have your balls in the fridge or something? I don’t think it matters what she’s gonna say. You’re leaving her, dude.”

“That isn’t the fucking point! I wanted this to end cleaner! She’s going to freak out and insist I can’t take care of myself.”

_She_ _’s going to freak out and insist I can_ _’t take care of my kids. I can_ _’t lose my kids_ _…_

“And, oh God, the kids!” Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself. “What the fuck am I gonna tell the kids, man?!”

Richie’s face goes about three shades paler, his eyes very large and very blue behind his glasses. “I’m gonna need you to back up a bit, Eds. What kids?”

Eddie’s tongue is a knot at the bottom of his mouth.

Bill strolls in, promptly dropping his bag of Lays. He seems smaller and grayer than Eddie remembers him being two- _five_ days ago.

“Eds,” he breathes out, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “H-How are you feeling?”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but Richie cuts him off. “He had sex with Myra.”

Bill blinks. “W-What?”

“Asshole,” Eddie scowls.

Richie’s face is still the color of spoilt sour cream. “Oh, I’m the asshole. I’m not the one who didn’t mention the fact I have literal fucking children.” 

Bill’s face falls. “Y-You have kids?”

It’s funny how even over twenty years later, disappointing Bill feels like sticking his hand in lava. Eddie rubs at his eyes. “Two.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Bill takes up Ben’s old seat, at the other side of Eddie’s bed. One of the tears he’d been holding in traces a line down his cheek.

“I…” his voice dies before he can get any other words out.

“I think Spagheds probably didn’t want me making fun of his kids’ names,” Richie chimes in.

Eddie glares at him to hide his gratitude. “Beep fucking beep, Richie.”

Bill shakes his head, ignoring their squabbling. “S-Stan’s done nothing but show us pictures of his wife and kids.” He sounds so fucking hurt and angry. The way he did when Eddie almost let Richie die. He made him mad again. “Why don’t you—“

“Bill,” Richie’s voice is soft, uncharacteristically serious. Bill looks across Eddie to him.

“Bill,” Eddie wets his lips. “Bill, I’m sorry. I just…the clown…I…”

It feels so stupid to say “I was afraid that the clown would get them”, even if that is the truth. Even if Bill and Richie are looking at him with a soft kind of sadness.

Bill takes one of Eddie's hands, more silent tears joining the first. "No, Eddie. I'm sorry. You've been dealing with a lot and I yelled at you..." He trails off, looking at Eddie's blanket, before speaking again. "We love you, Eddie. All of us. And we'll be here to support you, no matter what." 

Absurdly, Eddie looks up at Richie. His eyes are a solemn sea of blue, burning with some emotion Eddie doesn't care to identify. He doesn't want to set his own expectations too high. He turns back to Bill, squeezing his hand. With his other, he reaches out to grasp Richie's warm, familiar fingers. 

They curl around his own, tight and real and solid. 

The three of them stay, holding hands, until sleep begins to close in on Eddie once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ending is rushed but i really just wanted the boys to be Soft


End file.
